


and with her they came

by thescyfychannel



Series: at the end of the stars [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Multi, Other, and based off an incredibly long string of things, tagged in order
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 09:39:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3846088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in a way, they're fighting alongside her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and with her they came

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SplickedyHat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SplickedyHat/gifts).



> This is an expansion of this post (http://thescyfychannel.tumblr.com/post/117648731398/shes-always-had-heiresses-charge-at-her-in-the), which was based on a comment made by thii2ii2tupiid, based on _this_ post (http://splickedylit.tumblr.com/post/117645859398/you-know-what-keeps-occurring-to-me-though-if-the) by splickedylit.

they come in twos and threes at first, and after she raises her hackles and bares her fangs and _insists_ that an heiress must battle alone, they come one by one.

nepeta is the first, and the most insistent, showing the clawstrokes again and again and again, the patterns that the hunterrorists used to track and kill, no matter the conditions. she spends a perigee in the depth of the forest with nepeta, and by the end of it, she is streaked in all rainbow colors, and their army is as full-fed as it has ever been.

equius comes next—nepeta didn't even need to press or prod, just ask—and he doesn't insist, doesn't demand, merely watches her train and changes her stances, here and there. as much as he wants to fight long distance, he knows his own strength, has worked to refine it, and spends his perigee teaching her the concept of minimalism in battle—an arrow will do in place of a hammer.

aradia is third, for all that she was the one who put the idea into their heads. hers is the language of angles, of rebounds, of attacking from unexpected places and dealing with pitfalls and traps. adventuring is no task for a weak soul, and flarping has given her plenty of scuffles. after sweeps, her spatial abilities are second only to kanaya. the final test is an obstacle course that attacks from eight directions, and aradia can only laugh as she _literally_ plows through the last boulder.

eridan teaches her weakness. he is ruthless in his lessons, and as he knows her best, trained her, trained _with_ her, he knows her flaws and strengths inside and out, and hammers them relentlessly. he is a strict teacher, knocking her down and ordering her up again, and each time she comes snarling for his throat, he lectures her on telegraphing and obvious movements and letting her anger get the best of her.

vriska's lesson is playing dirty. _no self-respecting leader would fight fair!_ she insists. _especially not with what YOU'VE got on the line._ and she agrees, as she deals with sucker punches and low blows and insults and taunts and being tripped and having her hair pulled. by the end of it, she coils and pins it in lieu of chopping it all off, and she learns to keep herself tight and low, and to never take the honorable route. honor's of no use to the dead.

kanaya is stamina and grueling conditions. she trains shrouded in sun cloaks and drenched in daylight, the burning star glowering overhead as sweat stains uniform after uniform. fighting zombies and revenants is a thankless task, repetitive and mindless, until one with a little brain left nearly takes her head off—she learns to watch her back, to never sink too low into the left-right-slash. to stay ready, even as she tires.

tavros, the only other fighter with a long weapon, teaches her patience. _you know_ how _to fight,_ he insists, _but not, uh,_ when _to fight._ and so she spends hours standing with her weapons, holding them steady, feeling the ache and strain after the first few hours go by. it's still easier than the time spent meditating, where she must clear her thinkpan and let herself relax. battle rage is much easier to handle than coolheaded fighting.

karkat is unquenchable fire and passion and ideals. he is the only other one to contemplate arranging things so that no one dies, and they build castles in the sky as he shows her moves designed to protect, to cover, to shield the weaker spots and stop the shedding of blood. they adapt for sensitive fins and delicate gills, and even as she promises that she'll think about it, he insists that if it comes down to one of them, it had better be her.

gamzee teaches her the dance. the rhythm and flow and movement of each hit curving into another like so much music until the pattern is lost in the whole. there's no pattern that she can see, though, not consistently, and she adapts—fluid and fluent and flowing, until she is as much water as he is music, curving and shifting to each offering her opponent gives. they fight to a standstill, ending only from exhaustion, and he seems pleased and undistracted, for a solid moment.

terezi is resolve. conviction and crime and straight lines, darkening the grays to blacks and the greys to whites, until there is only attack and defend, kill or be killed. this is a battle to the death, and there is no room for hesitation, all promises and castles aside. there is a reason terezi waited so long, and the lessons are as relentless as eridan's, reminding her of each death, each sin, each crime her ancestor has committed against her own empire. kill or be killed. live or die. fight and _win._

sollux insists that he has nothing to teach. he's not a fighter in the traditional sense, he says, whoever thought that a spymaster/psionic would make a good tutor in the art of battle was obviously high off their ass. this line of thought continues until it is explained, in clear detail, that the empress has psionics.

sollux teaches her pain. the sharp sting and burn and jolt of a psionic burn, the feeling of slamming against a wall, over and over, how it feels to fight back against a force that can toss her like a rag doll. she learns to fight it, to read these different currents and prick her fins to sense without being overwhelmed, to feel without falling. she learns pain, and holding up under it, and fighting through it.

 

and when she goes into battle, she is not alone, with moves and blocks and kicks that the empress has _seen_ , over and over, but never all at once, never all together. everything curving perfectly into one seamless dance, ever-adapting, ever-fluid, and she falls as hard as the divisions between the colors that she wrought


End file.
